Jurisdicktion
by lankypanky
Summary: Dear god help me, I'm putting up a Blayden fic.  It's very silly and has a lot of bad words in it.  Also, bad sex.  Also, I am already giggling over the terrible pun of the title.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **God forgive me, I'm actually putting this up. It was weirdly easy to write, probably because, like with "Heroes' Reward," I don't really care about it as much as I do about other stuff. Almost done, just a last chapter to finish. Here, for the world, is my Blayden fic. Christ and all his angels help you if you think it's hot.

* * *

Blake's life was over, because his job was almost certainly over. _Fuck_ that asshole FBI agent. It wasn't enough for the fucking asshole to just solve the case, now Internal Affairs was questioning Blake about how he'd treated Mars while under arrest. And also, incidentally, just how he'd treated about two decades' worth of crying suspects. None of those questions were good news. No gun now, for Blake, no badge. The investigation wasn't over, but he was pretty sure where it would end up.

The case was over, and Blake had nowhere to take his rage. Nobody to punch, nobody to punish, no suspects, just Norman. Fucking. Jayden.

"Carter?" Joan had begun doing her makeup elaborately in the mornings, now. Not for herself, for him. Her husband usually said he liked it, but lately he appeared to be so sunk into misery that she wasn't even sure he noticed. He was finishing his breakfast, and she had to leave for work soon. "Hey, honey."

He looked up at her. "Yeah?"

"If you want any of those records copied before the hearing, I can do them at work, you know." It was the best she could do at offering help. He _never_ said how she could help him do anything. She was only even vaguely aware of why he was currently suspended, had to get it from the newspapers rather than his mouth. "Just, you know, give me anything you need."

"No, it's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Have a good day."

He was so efficient at shutting her out that she had no choice but to leave. He didn't finish his cereal, thought with frustration about how pretty Joan still was after all this time. The Wheaties broke up slowly in the bowl in front of him.

Carter Blake hadn't fucked his wife for ten years.

They had no kids. That made a lot of sense, really. The honeymoon period of their marriage had lasted about a week before they'd started fighting pretty hard. She was still on the pill, then, and both of them had enjoyed, to some extent – he more than her – the angry sex they always embarked on after they'd been screaming at each other for a while.

Then she'd finally said something that made him punch her right in the fucking face. He didn't slap her, didn't backhand her, just _punched_ her, as hard as he could. He'd broken her cheekbone.

After he saw her to the emergency room, immediately admitted what had happened, the cops that showed up mostly let him off the hook.

"Not gonna happen again," he said, and he meant it. "Ever again. Ever."

"Still gotta file an incident report, Detective Blake." The request was timid.

"I understand. Do it. I fucked up. But I can work this out. I got ways."

He'd gone home for about ten minutes, gathering the absolute basic essentials he needed to keep working. Checked in to the cheapest hotel he could find.

"Fuck you, Carter," he'd said to his own naked knees when he woke up there each morning. "Real men don't hit women. Ever."

He'd stayed there for two weeks, then called Joan, told her it would never happen again. He couldn't manage the words _I'm sorry_, but he could stand by his promise that he would never. Ever. Hit her. Again. No matter what. She let him come back.

And he stood by it. He hadn't laid a finger on her ever since then. Unfortunately, he also _never laid a finger on her_. Not a finger, not a hand, not a cock. Carter was terrified by his own potential for violence against his wife, thought of Joan as being too good, too pure, to ever experience anything like that ever again. Not just the punch, but the brutality of the sex he needed to get off. He didn't hit her. But he also didn't touch her in any way more meaningful than when they traded keys so she could take his car in for repairs. Sometimes, she'd kiss him shyly on the cheek. Their bed was an uncrossable desert.

And so, for ten years, he'd grown in sexual frustration and violence. He was addicted to his own rage now, needed it to feel his balls swell, his dick harden. Sometimes he'd even kick the shit out of a suspect and then excuse himself to jerk off in a bathroom stall.

Carter didn't know what Joan did about their lack of a sex life, but he abused prostitutes unmercifully. Some of them, mostly the ones with the long lists of priors, were glad to see him when he was working vice, knew he'd let them off as long as he had a go at their damaged goods. Some of them would just start crying, because they knew the hideous pounding Carter Blake was about to give them would leave them in such pain that it was worse than being arrested. Their bruises were sometimes startlingly huge. He'd bite their breasts so hard that they bled as he slammed them into the back door of his cruiser or the brick wall of the alley he'd found them in. His two pleasures, rage and sex, were finally wed when he fucked them until they had trouble walking. He always carried condoms in his pocket, just in case he was going to be able to hammer at another hole.

But they were just whores. They weren't Joan. He couldn't do that to Joan. She was his _wife_. And she was a good wife. And pretty. And smart. And clean. Cleaner than he'd ever be.

Now, she had just given him a slight hug before she sympathetically left him staring at a bowl of Wheaties as she left for work.

And he had no work to go to. Suspended. Had to wait until the investigation was over. And when it _was_ over, Carter was pretty sure he'd never, ever, work in this town again. And he didn't even have the luxury of eating his gun, because it'd been taken from him.

He laid down the spoon, left the unfinished bowl where it was. There was about an inch worth of whiskey left in the bottle in the cabinet, and he downed it all before he sank determinedly behind the wheel of his car. He knew exactly who had to pay for all this.

Norman.

Fucking.

Jayden.


	2. Chapter 2

Norman Jayden had spent a full day of explaining ARI data to a room full of puzzled administrators when the elevator doors opened onto his floor in the hotel he was staying in for _just_ a little bit longer. What a damn mess. It was like trying to explain the experience of colors to the blind.

The sight of Carter Blake standing, weaving slightly, outside of his door, was the last thing he expected. Or wanted.

Jayden's mouth went dry. He twitched a little as his muscles tried to decide just what the hell he should do about it. His adopted asexuality – intensely married to the job – had done a lot to compensate for being gay, but god knew he still needed to get off on a regular basis. God, and Kleenex, and hand lotion, and the Internet, and his own right hand. They all knew. And now Blake was _waiting _for him.

One of the problems – out of the many – was that Blake had physically always been one of those guys that turned his crank. Short, stocky, hairy, older. When Jayden had first met him, his pants had grown uncomfortably tight. Then Blake had opened his mouth and begun spewing his idiocy. _That_ had made Blake just about as attractive as the muddy ground they'd met on.

Jayden still saw him as desirable, abstractly, but it was much easier to not be aroused once he realized that the brain inside that forceful frame was pretty goddamned hideous.

Now, he posed himself a safe distance from his room. "Blake. What do you want."

"I wanna _talk _to you."

Oh, that was fucking fantastic: Blake was also visibly drunk. This was probably going to end either with someone in the emergency room, or under arrest. Possibly both.

"Can't talk right now, Blake," Norman managed. _Jesus_, that little fireplug of a man looked good in the jeans he was oozing out of a bit, ones that had clearly been purchased in leaner times. Ooooh, that very slightly overgenerous belly. "Long day. You're drunk. Go home."

Blake backed up a little. "We," started the detective, "Are gonna sort this shit _out_."

That didn't sound good, but at least Jayden had access to his door now. He sidled to it and got the electronic key to work as he kept eyeing Blake. "Really," Jayden said. "Go home. You're going to be sorry about this in a couple of hours." He began to step through his door, and Blake hurled himself at the FBI agent so hard that they both tore through the thing. Weighted, it peacefully shut behind the spectacle that was unfolding within Jayden's hotel room. Jayden lost his mind to rage; Blake's was already long gone.

"_Fuck you!_" Blake screamed, already trying to get his hands around the FBI agent's throat.

They wrestled like they had brain damage. Years and years of combat training went right out the window for both of them, because of their mutual fury. They wrestled like two nine-year-old boys on the floor, no motive but punishing the other, no way to achieve that punishment beyond fighting as hard as they could. Jayden had reach over Blake, was younger, but Blake had far more muscle, more heft to his efforts.

Just as Blake managed to slam the heel of his hand into the bridge of Jayden's nose, Jayden realized what he was feeling. They were so close, their legs kicking stupidly, that Jayden could feel Blake's enormous erection through all of their clothing. Hell, he'd probably have been able to feel it if he were back in Washington, that's how urgent it was. As he jammed his hands at Blake's ribs, he felt his own penis begin to rise. It took a second to readjust.

"_Yes_," he said. "_Fuck you._" He didn't even intend the pun as he abruptly shifted all of his weight into not trying to hurt Blake, but in trying to make it on top.

He did it, his longer arms and legs winning out the struggle for balance. As long as all he was trying to do was keep Blake in place on the floor, this was a goddamned pleasure. Their mutual erections were now rubbing against each other heavily.

Blake jerked himself into a new level of frantic: he was hard, he was _so_ hard, because he was about to start beating the shit out of someone who deserved it. And how that little piece of shit was – _oh, God_.

Norman got both of Blake's wrists onto the floor. The detective had started to scream terrible things: "_Fucking stop fuck you fuck you fuck you you fucking fuck!_" But Norman could feel Blake's stupendously hard dick through even the shared thickness of their pants. He began to grind against the detective as hard as his own erection could bear.

Blake was simply trying to get away at this point, and Jayden, trying to keep him in place as he pumped at it.

"You _shit_," Jayden said. "You _like_ it, you bastard. Didn't know that? Or were you always – oh, yeah, _asshole_."

Their pants were still done up, and Jayden, for one, didn't dare try to unzip anything, in case Blake got free and did more damage to him and his bleeding nose. He kept Blake's wrists in place as the detective realized what he was being forced into.

"_Faggot!_" Blake screamed. "_Fucking faggot cocksucker fairy queen faggot fucking faggot!_" Apparently, rubbing dicks didn't improve his verbal creativity.

Jayden wanted to laugh: all this time, he'd seen Blake as a desirable body with a terrible mind, so terrible that he couldn't even use him as masturbation fodder during those long nights in his hotel room. And now, he knew the secret: he hadn't realized before just how much it would be torture for Blake if he knew he was being desired by another man. Fucked. That was _hot_. That was _fucking hot_. And Jayden was prepared to torture Blake's crotch as long as possible while he thought about how hot it was.

They were just hammering dicks together through their bulging, still-fastened pants, but Blake was being _fucked_.

* * *

**A/N:** Just working out the details for the last bits. Should be up in a few days.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Oh, god, I forgot to let Blake put his dick back in his damn pants before he leaves. Sorry, Blake!

* * *

Almost inevitably, Jayden came first. Their hard, intense struggle against each other could only last so long. Jayden's poor constrained cock was asking to _please_ be given a break from the pounding against Blake's, promised it would be good if he'd just let it throw up for a minute. He started to relax a little as the joy began spasming to his brain, and Blake nearly managed to get his hands free.

"Ah, no," said Jayden, delirious with orgasm. "You stay there and like it."

He kept Blake's hands where they were. As Jayden's spent erection wandered away, he wriggled his way downwards so that he could begin to work his tensed abdominals against Blake's ridiculously swollen member. Any port in a storm.

"Schermivisbm," Blake said. It was probably intended to be an insult, but the detective was sunk too deeply into that twilight world of almost orgasming to make any sense. Norman kept easing his muscles against that rigid cock, planning ahead.

It didn't take too long until Jayden could tell that the suffering man under him was about to blow. The pressure against Jayden's navel was fulfilling. The pressure against Blake's pants was hideous.

Jayden brought the other man right to what he thought was probably the brink of pleasure, made a run for it by lifting himself up and away, started digging into his suitcase.

Blake's bulging balls were demanding his full attention. He had to jerk on his fly, let his entire package press anxiously against his underwear, in order to gain any kind of relief. He shot his newly-freed hands down there, freed his screaming cock from everything, worked himself to completion, finally ejected in a sort of miserable glory. Blake managed to roll over, saw Jayden sitting calmly in a chair, and began to catapult himself towards the FBI agent, deflating dick swinging.

Jayden knew that look in Blake's eyes. He'd seen it very recently, in Scott Shelby's. There was a furious glint of red that told Jayden that the detective might actually kill him. If he could. Right now. _Right_ now.

Carter Blake was charging towards Jayden with his teeth bared, as though he genuinely intended to tear the FBI agent's throat out with his _own fucking teeth_.

Jayden pushed the button on the taser.

The sight of Blake topping stiffly, helplessly to the floor was like orgasming _again_. If that was how good it was for women when they came over and over, Jayden was surprised that they didn't fuck all the goddamned day.

Jayden worked the cords back in, just in case he needed to fire again, and silently watched Blake flail his way along the carpet. The combination of rage, climax, and near insanity were not making it any easier for the detective to get his legs to work properly.

"You _fuck_," Blake finally managed. He was on his hands and knees, now, staring at the floor. "That always leaves a mark. I am going to tell everyone just what the fuck you did, you _cocksucker_."

"Yeah, you should do that." Jayden fondled the taser thoughtfully. "You should tell everyone _exactly_ what just happened. That you showed up and attacked me – you seen my face lately, Blake? – and then we dry-humped until you came. Tell that to anyone you want."

"You fucker." Blake was starting to get his head back together as the aftershock from the electricity left. "You fucking tased me."

"I've been working with your station for a little bit now, Blake." Jayden wiped loosely at the blood from his nose, smeared it across his cheek. "And you know what? Everyone there is afraid of you. I think even Captain Perry. Ash, definitely – that's why he never says shit when he has to watch you punch someone into the ground. I've never met a cop before who was so scared of his partner he didn't even want to ask for a transfer to a less scary one. You can give whatever version of events you want, but I've got what feels like a broken nose and you've got a station full of people who know you're the most volatile chemical on the planet. Who do you think they're going to believe?"

"Faggot." Blake's new reality was slowly sliding into place. "You _fucking_ faggot."

"Smarter faggot than you'll ever be," Jayden replied. He was, in truth, ready to do another round, completely aroused by the sight of Carter Blake crawling on his carpet. But he didn't think he'd survive another one of what they'd just done, because Blake might actually chew right the fuck through his ribs to eat his heart. "You just blew your load on my damn floor, genius. You think you're gonna be able to cover that up? Oh, ooooooooh, it looks like maybe I bled all over your shirt. _All_ over your shirt. Yeah, you should definitely tell someone I just hit you with a taser." He wiggled the one in his hand meaningfully. "That might be the best report ever."

Carter had already run out of words. "Gonna kill you," he said.

"Yeah, you know, I wouldn't put it past you. But it's not going to happen today, I can tell you that much. Wish I could let you use my shower, but – you know what? Get out of my fucking room. Just get out."

Blake slowly staggered his way to his feet, squeezed his sore genitals back into the front of his stained jeans, worked the door open, and straggled his way out. Jayden stared at that closed door for about five minutes before he started shaking his head in joy, heaved his way out of the chair, made his way to the bathroom so he could jerk off, blow another load, before he went to sleep.

Carter was so angry that he checked in to another hotel. He punched the walls hard enough to make his knuckles bleed, then worked himself to orgasm with his own gratifyingly damaged hands. One of them even felt like it might be broken, and jerking off with that kind of evidence of his own rage was like doing it to the Hallelujah Chorus. He stayed there two days before he called Joan.

"Oh my god," she said, as soon as she heard his voice. "Oh, god, Carter, I've been so worried. Oh, thank god you're okay."

"Yeah," he said heavily. "I'm okay." That was _almost_ true. "Had to take a break. Coming home tomorrow." That _was_ true.

After that, he called the station. "Ash," he said. "Hey, you asshole." It was how they usually greeted each other.

Ash's voice was cautious, and Blake thought, with a sinking stomach, about what the FBI agent had said. About Ash being afraid of him. "What's up?" Ash worked out.

"Listen, is that asshole FBI agent still around? I wanted to come in and get some of my shit, but I don't want to do it if he's still there."

"Oh. Yeah, he's here. Just two more days, I think."

"Great." Carter slammed the phone down, stared at the receiver. Then he dug the other number out of his wallet and dialed it.

"Norman," he started as soon as he heard the other end pick up. "Let's go get a drink."

". . . what? No. I don't think we really have anything to talk about."

"Me, either." Blake was forcing the words out of his mouth. "Let's just get a hotel room."

". . . uh?" Jayden couldn't have sounded any _more_ off-balance.

"Mond Hotel, room 115. If you're afraid I'm going to try to kill you, you can tell someone else where you're going. Or if you're going to be a huge fucking pussy about it, you can bring a fucking escort."

There was a long, round pause.

"Faggot," Blake finished.

"I'm bringing the taser," Jayden said.

Oh, Jesus, that would even be better, and Blake couldn't help confessing it aloud: "_Good_. Bring it."

Blake could already feel his pulse pounding.

* * *

**A/N: **You know, I really hate that stereotype where guys who hate homosexuals are secretly gay. But then I met a couple of dudes who really _are_ that way - one of 'em is even a Catholic monk, now, and he seriously has like the gayest monk name ever. It's so gay I don't even want to tell you what it is, because it would almost immediately identify him. Pretend it's "Brother Rainbow," and you'll have a pretty good idea of just how gay it is. I guess that's just how it works for some guys. Like, it's so dirty that it's extra hot. Whatever. Blake's one of those, in this thing. He's not . . . super gay, he just has that association with it being forbidden that makes it totally hot for him. Poor Blake.

And yeah, Joan's life does kind of suck. But don't worry about it too much. She has a small but highly efficient collection of vibrators and dildos that she keeps in her nightstand and uses whenever her asshole husband is working late. She's named all of them, and none of their names is "Carter." She could be doing better, but she's doing _okay_.

. . . I really don't know if this is all workable. I'm still so confused by the penis. _Confusing world of the penis_.


End file.
